


cold fire

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Series: the only hope; or else despair [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Autistic Character, Autistic Zuko, Character Study, F/M, Fire Nation Royal Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Ursa POV, Ursa is a great mama, canon compliant Ozai Being Awful, very brief mention of miscarriage in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:11:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10467909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: "Ursa is hardly more than a girl when the little life that will become her son quickens inside of her. She is nineteen and newlywed, still young enough to cherish dreams that her pregnancy will make her distant husband warm to her."Vignettes from Zuko's childhood.





	1. and he a face still forming

Ursa is hardly more than a girl when the little life that will become her son quickens inside of her. She is nineteen and newlywed, still young enough to cherish dreams that her pregnancy will make her distant husband warm to her. Ozai still treats her with the same cold courtesy as he did on their wedding night, just months before. But he also ensures that she is pampered by the servants and cared for as though she were fragile. Ursa isn’t used to this, after such a short time being a princess of the Fire Nation, and she finds it a little disconcerting.

More troubling is the way her husband pets her stomach, once she starts to show. He talks about his expected heir incessantly to her. How the Fire Sages had promised that a marriage with the last Avatar’s granddaughter would produce children of unrivaled power. How his son would one day sit on the Firelord’s throne. Ursa isn’t sure exactly how this last part is supposed to happen, but she can tell from the unveiled exhilaration in his voice that her husband is letting his guard down about his ambitions.

 Still, she can’t help but think that Ozai sees her as nothing more than a pretty, well-bred vessel. _He’s just excited to be a father,_ she tells herself, pushing her worries away. _He doesn’t know you as well yet. Love will come._

* * *

 When Zuko is born, the pain is unimaginable. The baby is breech, and she labors for hours in darkness, surrounded by the scent of blood. By the time the sun comes up and she holds her tiny son in her arms, though, she already knows that she would forgive this perfect little boy for any pain he ever caused her.

When Ozai comes to visit in the hours after the birth, she reluctantly passes Zuko to him, not quite willing to stop gazing into her baby’s amber eyes and stroking his downy tufts of hair. Ozai holds the baby at arm’s length, staring into his little face as if he can’t quite believe his eyes. Finally, a gloating smile plays about his lips, until little Zuko sneezes. He grimaces, and passes the baby to a servant to wipe his nose.

* * *

 Crown Prince Iroh comes back from the Earth Kingdom front when Zuko is six weeks old. He comes clunking into the baby’s nursery straight from his presentation in the Firelord's throne room, without even taking off his armor, ecstatic to see his new nephew. Ensconced in Ursa’s arms, Zuko’s eyes widen in fear at first.  When Iroh removes his spiked helmet and reveals his friendly face, though, he easily relaxes.

Soon, Zuko is being bounced up and down in Iroh’s lap, while his uncle makes silly faces at him. Zuko gives his gummy baby smile in return, and Ursa can’t stop laughing. Beneath her happiness, there’s a little flash of something wistful—she can’t imagine Ozai ever making a silly face in his life, even at his own son.

* * *

 Several months pass, and Zuko has shown no sign of firebending ability. Ursa wouldn’t be worried—she knew children growing up who didn’t show the signs for years, and she would love her son even if he never bended at all. But it bothers Ozai, so of course it bothers her.

She can bend herself, of course; she never would have been considered as a bride for the Firelord’s son otherwise. But Ursa always preferred painting and embroidery to the limited firebending training she had as a girl. Besides, her lessons had focused on gracefulness of form rather than the combat training Ozai and Iroh had had. The battlefield was no place for a girl.

Nowadays, Ursa is perfectly content to use her powers to make pretty little flames, amusing and astounding Zuko. Still, when she sees Ozai examining Zuko carefully, casting such a critical eye over her son, it worries her. When he visits the nursery, her husband will crouch beside Zuko on the floor, pulling a toy from his grasp, and hold a flame cupped in his hands, watching the light reflected in Zuko’s eyes, searching for signs of recognition.

One night, Ursa enters Zuko’s room to find Ozai standing over the crib. Ursa never thought her husband would visit Zuko alone, without his wife or a servant nearby. But there he is, watching his son sleep. Her husband reaches out, running one long finger along Zuko’s plump little hand, as if to coax the sparks from it.

Ozai keeps his back to her, but he’s caught sight of her reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. He locks eyes with her in the mirror and nods curtly.

“My father has been making comments. About Zuko’s bending—or lack thereof. He suspects the boy will never have the ability.”

Ozai finally turns to look at her, head cocked to one side, watching her carefully.

“I suspect the same.”

“He’s still so small,” Ursa excuses. “He has plenty of time. The Firelord, wise as he is, has forgotten that babies grow at their own pace.”

“That may be. But every day that passes makes me wonder if my son will show any talent, any potential. Today, all I see is weakness.”

“He is a baby, Ozai!”

When Ursa looks at Zuko, she sees his curiosity—the way he studies the world quizzically, caught up in his surroundings. At their beach house, he’d watched the Ember Island fireflies dance on the other side of the windowpanes, their ghostly luminescent bulbs bigger than his fist. When one of the insects hovered against the window, Zuko would put his nose to the glass in the same spot, flapping his hands with excitement. She sees his sensitive spirit—quick with tears and also with laughter. Her son is a small, vulnerable person, with his own budding personality, who needs her protection. She cannot imagine treating that vulnerability with contempt.

“You are too attached to him,” Ozai says, turning away from her again. “He is only a baby, and sometimes babies die.”

Ursa could swear she feels the blood freeze in her veins.

“What are you saying?”

“He is weak.”

“He’s perfectly healthy!”

She hopes against hope that he does not mean what she thinks he means.

“If he cannot bend, he is useless to me. The weak do not last long.”

Ursa clenches her fists, fighting back tears. “If you touch him, I will kill you.”

Ozai _laughs,_ and that is what really destroys her.

“You hear me? I’ll kill you,”

Her voice is rising to a scream.

 “You may not be brave enough to stand up to your father, but I can stand up to you!”

Ozai whirls on her, hand flying up as if to strike her. He stops before the blow lands, breathing heavily.

“Don’t you ever call me a coward again,” he snarls.

Ursa steps back, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Behind them, Zuko wakes, stirred by their raised voices, and starts to cry. His wails overshadow both of them, and he raises his hands to cover his little face, as if the sight of them frightens him.

The lamps on the walls flicker reproachfully, then go out.

In the darkness, Ursa’s eyes widen.

“Did you do that?”

“No,” Ozai says sullenly. “I can control myself better than that.”

He glances over at Zuko’s crib.

“Did he…”

Ursa half-laughs, half-sobs.

“I think so.”

“He must have been frightened by you crying,” Ozai muses. “It could be a coincidence, but I suppose it’s a start.”

Later, after he leaves, Ursa lets out the breath she’s been holding and rushes to Zuko’s crib. She picks him up, hugging him close to her chest, and sobs into his silky hair. He squirms and pulls away. Ursa loosens her grip, giving Zuko a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Well, I suppose he fell for it,” she whispers. “But you need to start firebending for real, little one. I can't always help you.”


	2. last year's words belong to last year's language

After another month of Ozai eyeing him with suspicion and expectation—a month of Ursa coaxing and praying—Zuko finally shows firebending ability on his own. One of the servants comes running to tell Ursa that Zuko, overtired and desperately needing a nap, had produced irritable sparks. Ursa could have cried with relief.

Early the next morning, with Zuko bundled into his best clothes, their little family kneels before the Firelord’s throne to make the announcement. Two announcements, actually—Ursa is pregnant again.

Zuko is just old enough now to sit by himself in the throne room, instead of being balanced awkwardly in his mother’s arms when he is presented to his grandfather. Today, he fidgets as his father and grandfather exchange pointed pleasantries, his wide eyes fixed on the sheet of flame in between them. Ursa nudges him, trying to get him to sit still. Instead, he scoots over and cuddles up next to her. Azulon raises his eyebrows, and Ozai winces and turns his face away from them.

Still, though, the Firelord is pleased. He acts as if he never doubted Zuko’s bending, and praises Ursa’s fertility. Ozai manages to mention—not as subtly as he might have wished—that his brother Iroh has only the one son.

Afterwards, they walk together down the long, dark hall, with Zuko perched on Ursa’s hip.

“I knew he could do it,” Ursa says quietly, fishing for an apology. _I told you._

“The next one will be stronger.” There is still a hint of a threat in Ozai’s voice.

* * *

They go to Ember Island to celebrate. Even beneath the shade of a paper umbrella, Ursa fans herself in the sticky summer heat. At her feet, Zuko plays with shells, rolling them across the sand in haphazard patterns that only make sense to him.

Ozai is a strong swimmer, and he shows off for her, turning flips in the waves. She finds herself laughing, carrying Zuko to the water’s edge and carefully dangling his limp little feet above the surf, letting the water lick at his toes. Zuko squirms, then splashes happily.

That night, they build a bonfire on the beach, in the night’s chill. Or rather, Ozai builds a bonfire—he won’t let Ursa do any lifting, now that she’s pregnant. Zuko watches the sparks drift up towards the stars; Ozai lifts him up onto his shoulders, so he can get a better view.

Ozai is always more relaxed on the island, away from court, away from his father and brother. His combativeness retreats under the surface, like the tangled seaweed beneath the surface of the waves; still there, but easier to forget. On Ember Island, Ozai is someone Ursa could love; she can almost believe he loves her too.

* * *

 

Azula’s birth is quicker and easier than Zuko’s had been—she comes out screaming, red-faced and furious. Violently healthy, the midwife says. Within days, she produces sparks of her own; the signs of firebending ability that took Zuko months of worry and strife.

As their daughter grows, Ozai can’t stop bragging about his little prodigy. Ursa, on the other hand, worries she’ll burn down the nursery before she can control her powers.

Zuko has mixed feelings about his baby sister—she is loud, and disrupts his routines. But he also clearly loves her. He doesn’t have the words to say it yet, but whenever he wants to hold Azula, he’ll tug on Ursa’s sleeve and then swing his arms back and forth like he’s rocking a baby. He likes to stand on his tiptoes and peep into her crib, making her giggle as his face appears and disappears.

Once, Ursa comes into the nursery late at night to find that Zuko’s somehow gotten Azula out of her crib and into his bed. The two of them are asleep together, curled up like a pair of moose lion cubs.

* * *

By Azula’s first birthday, a new conflict presents itself, another realm in which Zuko cannot compete. Even though she is more than a year younger, Azula’s speech is much more developed than Zuko’s. She babbles and shouts almost incessantly, while Zuko has only a few words, coupled with a simple vocabulary of gestures he’s worked out with his mother and the servants. He understands what’s spoken to him, as much as any two-year-old does, but his speech is definitely delayed.

This, more than the difference in firebending, is unusual. Ursa worries for him; she doesn’t mind him being a late bloomer, but she remembers her fear over his firebending and what Ozai might have done. If he couldn’t stand to have a son who couldn’t bend, how will he handle one who can’t talk?

So she savors each new word, each little hand sign that fills in the gaps. She worries sometimes that her focus on Zuko is unfair to Azula, but things come so much easier to her younger child, and Zuko needs her more now. Besides, Azula is her father’s favorite—so gifted, such a good girl.

It takes Ozai longer to notice Zuko’s speech delay than Ursa had thought it might—he had been so focused on his children’s bending that he seems to have forgotten about typical milestones. When he does notice, he is angry, as she had guessed.

He blames Ursa for it, for coddling Zuko so that he doesn’t grow up properly.

“That’s not fair,” Ursa argues. “I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault—it’s just the way he is. I talk to him as much as I can. How else is he going to speak himself?”

 _You hardly talk to him at all,_ she thinks, but doesn’t dare to say. _You hardly notice him. How can you blame me?_

 _“_ Just because he doesn’t dazzle you like Azula doesn’t mean he isn’t learning. He’s just growing at his own pace.”

Ozai’s face darkens.

“Well, he’d better hurry up about it. I don’t want a son who shames me. I don’t want a slow child.”

And with that, he turns his back to her and walks away; he always has to have the last word.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little nervous about putting the autistic Zuko headcanon out there and giving lil Zuko a speech delay, so please give me some positive feedback if you can. Thank you for reading!


	3. and next year's words await another voice

Zuko, eventually, begins to speak fluently, although he’s always quieter than Azula. Not that it’s hard, since Azula is quite the chatterbox. At first, his syntax is odd and jumbled, and he retains some of his baby signs for years. By the time he is six, his speech is almost completely typical, although he still has a little lisp, and he’s forgotten his signs entirely. Sometimes, Ursa misses them, the same way she misses having children small enough to hold in her arms. She would have had another, but she miscarries shortly after Zuko’s fourth birthday.

She expects Ozai to be angry, or at least disappointed. She knows better now than to think he would share her heartbreak, the fragility she feels after losing her child. If he feels sadness, he would not show it.

But she is surprised by his reaction. He puts his arms around her, albeit stiffly, and holds her when she cries. He tells her it is enough. He has his male heir, and a clever girl. Zuko is talking now, and he’s obedient, and he isn’t such a disappointment. And Azula is special, just like the Fire Sages had predicted.

He tells her what she needs to hear. Ozai is good at that.

* * *

 

Ursa is good with words—Azula gets that from her as well as from her father. She knows how to shape a story for her audience, which words to choose and which thoughts to leave behind. She used to put on little plays with her friends as a child, creating characters from thin air, and those skills serve her well at court. She knows when to smile, and when to wear a mask.

She also knows how to weave a wonderful bedtime story, and her children love her for it. On the nights when Ursa puts them to bed, rather than one of the servants, Zuko and Azula always clamor for one of her tales. She tries to do this as often as possible. If Ozai doesn’t send for her to join him in bed, or if her presence isn’t required at one of the Firelord’s court functions, she is there. They’ll switch off between the children’s bedrooms—Ursa will sit cross-legged on the floor next to the bed, with both children perched on top, and tell stories. Zuko always likes to hear his favorites over and over, while Azula prefers something exciting, something new.

Tonight, Zuko wins their little squabble. Bright-eyed and rocking back and forth happily, he requests a story she remembers from her own childhood—the tale of the Avatar and his dragon.

When her grandmother told her this tale as a little girl, it had the immediacy of experience. She had seen the dragon with her own eyes many times, she assured a not-quite-believing Ursa. Ursa had always wondered about this strange world where dragons were loyal friends rather than enemies to be slain.

When she was older, after her grandmother had passed away, Ursa realized the truths beyond the tale—the Avatar was Roku, her grandmother’s husband, and she had indeed seen the dragon. It was daring, perhaps, to tell this story, when the hero was regarded by most in the Fire Nation as a traitor.

So she adapts the story further for her own children, nudging it back further into myth. The Avatar becomes a figure of long-ago. This story takes place in a world far beyond living memory, she always tells the children, and that isn’t a lie—the world has changed. She gives the dragon dialogue of its own, when in real life dragons don’t speak, and the tale turns further into fantasy.

By the time she finishes, Zuko is leaning off the edge of his bed, hanging on every word. Even Azula is listening carefully, curled up on her pillow.  

“You’ll fall off the bed, Zuko,” Ursa playfully admonishes, rolling him back up in his sheets.

Zuko gazes up at her, dreamy-eyed.

“Imagine riding a dragon,” he says, voice quivering with excitement. “Or bending all four elements at once. Everything must have been so much more interesting in the olden days. ”

Azula yawns. “Well, firebending is enough for me.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re really good at it,” Zuko says, a hint of jealousy creeping into his voice.

“Yes, I am,” Azula smiles, then turns to Ursa.

“Mom, can we hear more about dragons? I want to know about how Grandfather fought a dragon. Do you know that story?”

“You know, Uncle Iroh killed a dragon too?” Zuko asks, perking up. “I asked him about it once but he said he’ll tell me about it when I’m older. I can’t wait!”

“What did he do, talk it to death?” Azula scoffs.

“Azula!” Ursa scolds her daughter. “Be respectful of your uncle. He’s a hero of the Fire Nation.”

“Well, _Dad_ is a better firebender.”

“You can’t firebend against a dragon, silly,” Zuko announces. “You have to fight it with a sword. Uncle promised he’d show me how to fight with a sword the next time he comes back home from the Earth Kingdom.”

He bounces excitedly.

“I’m going to be a great warrior _and_ firebender when I grow up, just like Uncle and Dad.”

“Good luck,” Azula says sarcastically.

“Azula! If you keep up like this, you won’t ever get to hear about your grandfather fighting the dragon.”

Azula shrugs. “I could ask him myself.”

“You can’t just ask the Firelord to tell you a story like you can ask Mom,” Zuko says, sounding horrified.

“I could too. Grandfather says I’m his most talented grandchild.”

“You are not! Lu Ten is all grown up and a warrior, anyway.”

“I am too!”

“Are not!” Zuko reaches out to push her.

“That’s it,” Ursa says, batting his hand away. “It’s bedtime. Azula, come with me, we’re going back to your room.”

* * *

 

 

Ursa isn’t sure how accurate Zuko’s predictions of his future are—she often wonders whether her son has the makings of a warrior. He has a gentleness of spirit that she tries to cultivate, and Ozai often worries that Zuko is too soft for a prince of the Fire Nation. Still, though, Ursa doesn’t think that bodes ill.  Iroh, for instance, has a softness about him with his loved ones that doesn’t impede his ferocity on the battlefield. And Zuko also possesses a rambunctious, impulsive energy that often bubbles over into wild war games.

Right now, he loves to play-fight and wrestle, and he’s quite good at it. Zuko is tall for his age, and doesn’t give up easily, even though he’s also rather clumsy. He tries to play-fight Azula sometimes, but always ends up singed and disgruntled, even when he tries to make her promise not to bend. So he looks elsewhere.

Making friends doesn’t come very easily to Zuko. Unlike Azula, who has her little crew of noble girls, Zuko mostly plays with the servants’ children, when he plays with others at all. These children feel more of a sense of obligation to play with him. Besides, very few of them are benders, so they’re more likely to be wowed by his production of little sparks, instead of needling him for not being better at bending than he is.

The year they all turn six, the servants’ children stop hanging about the palace with their parents and go off to one of the public schools in the city. Zuko, who has private tutors, might feel a little lonely, so Ursa watches him carefully. She had worried he might be tearful, but instead he seems carefully blank-faced. Something about his stoicism rings false to her, and Zuko is usually quite awful at playacting or even fibbing, so she decides to fish around a little bit and find out what’s really going on.

One night, she foregoes the usual story after she puts the children to bed, ensuring that they’re both in their separate rooms, to give Azula no opportunity to tease her brother. She pulls up a chair at Zuko’s bedside, as her son waits and watches her expectantly.

“It’s been a few days since all of your friends started school. Do you miss them?”

Zuko glances away from her. “No.”

He really is a bad liar. She smiles slightly to herself, finding it endearing.

“Are you sure?”

Zuko fidgets nervously with his hands.

“They’re not my friends, anyway. Dad said.”

Ursa sighs. “What did your father say?”

“Dad said it’s not proper for me to play with the servants’ kids, and I shouldn’t let them call me Zuko either, only Prince Zuko. He said that he didn’t want his only son playing with peasant children, and they only play with me ‘cause they have to anyway. He said I should play with Azula and Mai and Ty Lee, but I don’t wanna. Ty Lee’s always showing off and doing cartwheels and when I try I fall over and then Azula laughs at me.”

Zuko clears his throat, looking a bit ashamed of himself.

“Mom, I told Asa about what Dad said.”

Asa is the son of one of the palace cooks, a sweet, cheerful boy who seems to genuinely enjoy playing with Zuko. Ursa would probably consider him Zuko’s first real friend.

“He came the day before he went to school and he told me he was going to miss me and he’d see me on the weekend. I told him I couldn’t play with him anymore ‘cause he’s only a servant and my dad said not to, and that he had to call me Prince Zuko. ”

He looks up at her, earnest and agitated.

“I made him _cry,_ Mom! I like Asa, but if Dad says I can’t play with him, I won’t. But I didn’t want to make him cry.”

Zuko frowns.

“He said I was being _mean._ I wasn’t trying to be! I was just doing what Dad said. How come Asa thought I was being mean?”

Ursa moves over, so she’s sitting on the bed next to him. She reaches out and ruffles her son’s long, loose hair.

“Zuko, let me tell you a secret.”

Zuko nods. “Okay, mom, what is it?”

“Your father isn’t always right. Maybe it isn’t _proper_ for you to be friends with the servants’ children, but you _are_ friends with Asa, and that’s why he got upset when you told him not to be your friend. Because he wanted to be your friend, not because he had to be or because you ordered him to.”

Ursa had intended to be comforting, but Zuko’s eyes go wide.

“But Dad ought to be right! He’s my father, and he’s all grown up, and he’s a prince. If he’s not right about this, how do I know _you’re_ always right? Or uncle Iroh, or Grandfather, or Li and Lo, or—”

Ursa cuts him off.

“Zuko, Zuko, don’t worry so much. No one’s always right, not grownups or anyone. Not even me. And that’s okay. We have to accept when we’re wrong. Some people aren’t very good at that.”

“Like Dad? He _acts_ like he’s always right.”

“Well, your father was wrong to tell you what he told you, and you were wrong to reject Asa like that, even if you didn’t know any better. You’re my good, gentle boy, Zuko. You should be kind.”

“Dad says—he says there’s no place for kindness on a battlefield.” Zuko looks down at his hands again, speaking tentatively. “He says he doesn’t want me to be weak.”

“Zuko, am I kind to you?”                                                                        

“Of course!”

“What about your uncle?”

“Yes, of course he is.”

“And does that make him weak? Does that make me weak?”

“No?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Zuko looks up at her again, mouth set with determination.

“When Asa comes back on the weekend, I’m going to say sorry to him.”

“Good choice, Zuko. I'm proud of you.”

“What if Dad gets angry about it, though? ‘Cause I disobeyed him. ”

“I’ll talk to your father about it. Don’t worry.”

Zuko smiles tremulously. “Okay. I’ll say sorry to Asa and maybe we can be friends again.”

Ursa smiles and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. He throws his arms around her spontaneously, and she hugs him tightly back.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you too, little one. More than anything.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this fic, although I may have more ideas for Ursa and Zuko and others in the future. Thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments, and I hope you like the way I wrote Zuko now that he's found his voice.
> 
> The chapter titles are from "Little Gidding" by T.S. Eliot.
> 
> Edit: 4/2/2017. You may notice this work is now part of a series. I've started storyboarding for a fic focused more on Zuko after Ursa is banished, which hopefully will be up soon.


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